There’s a careless constellation of lights on the stage and a show
business anthem on the soundtrack, “New York, New York.” That puts you
in the mood.

But for what? A very old Jew with an unreliable hairpiece who ambles on
and sticks a finger at a man in the front row and says, “Yes, you, I’m
talking to you. Are you listening? Are you even alive?”

As with Ken Dodd,
his only peer at this level, most of Mason’s material is achingly
familiar, though the new stuff – the Harry Redknapp schtick, for
instance, about making a gift of his money to a dog – is mostly well up
to scratch.

But whereas Dodd works on energy, Mason functions on a complete lack of
it. It’s endemic to his style, and his mindset. He ambles slower than a
funeral cortѐge and can barely raise his eye-line beyond the middle
stalls: yet they’re in fits at the back of the house. ~what's on stage

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